Seeing Through To You
by saunatonttu
Summary: As their mission is about to begin, 'France' confronts 'England' about an issue that has changed the Brit. Secret Agent!AU. Rated T  at the very least for the reason that is France. FrUK, past USUK, kind of FRUKUS. Kinda angsty.


**A/N: HOW COULD I HAVE IGNORED MY OTP FOR HALF A YEAR? O.O Anyhow, this is due to a very annoying and relentless plot bunny that jumped in to my head. SIGH. The most annoying thing is... now I want to write a multichapter-fic with this universe here in this oneshot.**

**The ideas have been harassing my brain for the whole week...**

**Anyway. Now I officially LOVE secreat agent!Nations with my whole heart. . **

**Please do feel free ask me anything if something about this oneshot brothers you. **

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><p><strong>Seeing Through To You<strong>

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><p>"Why do I always get stuck with you on these missions?" the British one of the two complained loudly while folding few pieces of clothing and throwing them into the black suitcase he used all the time. "I <em>absolutely <em>hate having to work with you!"

A snort acted as a response to the Brit's words. "Ah, I wouldn't call it a pleasant surprise either, mon cher", another voice commented jovially with a thick French accent. "Since it's not a surprise, considering that we have been working together for three years together, _mon Angleterre._"

The shorter male with naturally messy and disheveled hair scowled and shot a glare at the other's back while he continued packing his things into the suitcase. "Still! It's like they don't trust me to do my own missions myself!" the Brit huffed indignantly.

"Aww, cher... I'm sure you're not as disappointed to work together with me as you sound", the Frenchman said teasingly as he turned around to look at the stuffy Brit with a twinkle in his eyes. The curly-haired Frenchman was clad in a formal but stylish white suit and a scarlet collar shirt underneath the suit jacket.

As much as tha man known as England (or Angleterre, as the Frenchman had called him) detested it, he had to admit that the French male, whose codename was fittingly France, looked pretty damn hot in that suit.

...Not that he even acknowledged that thought! It was just a random thing his mind told him!

...Ugh. Being _gay _and a secret agent who was partnered with a narsistic French male (who tried to grope you every now and then) was annoying.

...And he definitely hadn't watched the French from the corners of his eyes. Not. At. ALL.

"Oh, shut up", the Brit growled as his suitcase was closed with a resounding click. After that, he turned around to glare at the other blond. "I'd much rather work alone, but nooo, those bloody idiots apparently think we work well together." A scowl became even more apparent on his face now.

France's eyebrows rose slightly, a smug smile twitching his lips up. "Mon cher, I can only think of one good reason you wouldn't want to work with me", he drawled as his eyes scanned the British man's outfit with his eyes, approving glint in them.

England – as he was known in these circles – self-consciously tugged at his tie with his right hand, slightly unnerved by the other man's stare although he refused to admit it to himself.

"Lime green does suit you well, mon cher", the French said with that infuriatingly smug tone of voice that made England want to smack his head into pieces with an axe. (Preferably with the one that belonged to the one called Denmark.)

"Why, thank you", England responded stiffly as he turned back to his suitcase, his fingers brushing against its smooth surface. "I didn't think I'd actually hear a compliment from you, frog." He paused for a moment as a thought came up. "Make sure your revolver is loaded. It'd be a nasty surprise for you if you happened to need it."

France's smile stayed on his face, but his eyes got a calculating look on them as he continued to watch his partner who had apparently falled deep into his thoughts after the remark about checking his gun.

"Angleterre", he broke the short silence that had fallen between them and sat down on the bed he had been sleeping on for the last couple of days. He had tried to coax the Briton into sleeping in the same bed with him, but England didn't trust him to keep his hands to himself. France was pretty sure the Brit liked the idea though, since he had flushed scarlet once he had heard the suggestion.

"You're too tense for your own good~", the French continued once he had succesfully grabbed the Brit's attention. "There's enough room for you on my bed, _non_?"

England whirled around and shot one of his most venomous glares yet towards the direction of his rather disgusting partner. "Hell no, you moron! Stop trying to get into my pants and sod off, you twat!" he spat, his cheeks bright red with embarrassment.

France's smile widened at the sudden outburst and he rose to his two feet and with the casuality of a relaxed cat, he walked to the now very cautious Englishman who looked ready to pounce him.

"I was going to suggest a nice and relaxing massage, but if that's what you'd rather do, _mon Anglais..._" he purred seductively, his hands discreetly wrapping themselves around the frozen Brit's waist. "...You should express your physical needs more... hmm... _vocally..._"

"I-I don't know w-what the hell you're talking about!" the Brit shouted as he recovered from his initial shock and squirmed against the golden-haired man's rather strong and insistent arms. "Unhand me now, you bloody git", he demanded as the grip didn't falter.

France merely grinned jovially at the agitated Brit and tightened his grip. "Non, I don't think I'll do that~", he said merrily with very amused expression on his face, which irritated the already irate England even more.

"Do you _want _to be slapped again, you fucking moron?" he hissed out with his green eyes narrowed and his hands clenched. He was most definitely amused by any of this. The most annoying part of it all was that France _knew _England was irritated and still continued on irritating him with his idiotic game that apparently was called seduction in the frog language.

France's eyes widened in mock shock. "You wouldn't dare, mon cher~", he said with a confident smile. "You _want _me to kiss you, _mon coeur_, I can see it in your eyes", he added quickly before the Brit got the time to interject.

An angry huff followed this statement. "Unhand me _now_", England grumbled as he squirmed uncomfortably, trying to shake the hands off from him. "Or else you won't have a face to look at from mirrors."

"Aww, cher, you let America hold you like this and you never complained about it", the Frenchman whined pathetically with a small pout on his face. Immediately he noticed the mistake he had done as England tensed up and stopped squirming.

He seemed to even stop breathing.

"...Cher?" France tentatively questioned, trying to keep the eye contact with the Brit, who was as tense as a stick in his arms.

"Don't... talk about him", the Brit whispered so quietly that it was pretty much impossible to hear. France, however, was gifted with good ears. "Don't... mention him", the Brit continued breathlessly, still not meeting France's deep blue eyes. He had, however, brought his hands up and was now grasping France's suit jacket from France's chest level.

"Angleterre", France let his hands fall from the slender waist and used the other hand's index and middle finger to raise England's head from his chin in order to look straight into his eyes. "Look at me, Angleterre."

The Brit hesitantly looked at the French, but his mind was completely elsewhere by now.

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><p>"<em>Hey, hey, Arty~!"<em>

"_Sod off. Alfred." _

"_Nuh-uh. I'm taking you out for dinner~!"_

"_I swear if it's McDonald's again, I'm going to shoot you myself."_

"_Naw, Russia's already reserved the privilege to shoot me if I screw up. And it's not McDonald's this time! I swear it!"_

"_Yeah, yeah. Whatever, git... Er, what should I wear, though? Is it a fancy restaurant or what...?"_

"_You're fine just like that, Artie, now let's go!" _

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><p>"<em>Are you sure about this, Alfred?"<em>

"_Hey, it's my mission, Arthur. I can't just not do it."_

"_I have done that a lot."_

"_But I'm awesome and you're... less awesome. Awesome still, but not as awesome as me. My freaking codename is the US of Awesomeness." _

"_Alfred, you're rambling. Anyway... When?" _

"_I'm heading out tomorrow. I'll be meeting with Russia and China at Beijing first before the official... or unofficial... mission starts. Officially." _

"_Russia and China, huh?"_

"_You and France got a mission yet?" _

"_There's no 'France and I', dammit! And I don't know, my shoulder's not completely healed yet." _

"_I know you want him, Arthur." _

"_...What the hell are you talking about, you prat?" _

"_Hey, I'm not mad or anythin'! I know you guys have been working together for a while and you have saved each other's asses more times than I have kissed ya." _

"_W-what the hell are you trying to say, you git? Just spit it out!"_

"_Artie... You should just, like, tell him. Kiss him. Make out with him. Get pregnant with his child-" _

"_OH, SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU IDIOT!"_

"_Why did ya hit me? My nose's bleeding!"_

"_Serves you right, you wanker!" _

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><p>"<em>Alfred!"<em>

"_Ahh... Hey there..."_

"_Don't you dare to smile at a moment like this!"_

"_Are you crying, Arthur?"_

"_N-no!"_

"_Ahhahahah... Don't you worry about this awesomeness, I'll be as great as usual in no time!"_

"_I don't know if you realize this, twat, but you have a hole in your bloody abdomen and you're BLEEDING. Literally."_

"_No worries, Artie~. I'll be fine – I always am!"_

"_You're too optimistic for your own good, you arse."_

"_Being optimistic is good, Arthur – you should try it sometimes. Like you definitely should hook up with the French partner of yours as well." _

"_How many times do I have to tell you? I do _not _have any kinds of feelings for the frog."_

"_Haha... You suck at lying, Arty."_

"_Don't you trust me? Is that it, Alfred? Is that why you keep saying that?"_

"_That's not it at all, Arty... I..."_

"_Alfred? What's wrong?"_

"_Can't... breathe..."_

"_No... Shit. Don't... The ambulance's coming... Don't you die on me!"_

"_...S... Sorry..." _

"_And don't you say your farewells to me either, idiot!"_

"_...But Arty..." _

"_Don't. You. Even. Dare."_

"_Ah... hah..." _

"_Don't laugh." _

"_Gimme... a kiss... Arty."_

"_...Al... No, you can't..." _

"_Pr... etty... please?" _

"_F-fine, you git." _

* * *

><p>"Angleterre?" the worried tone of his 'partner' echoed in his ear for few moments before he snapped out of his miserable memories. Alright, not <em>miserable. <em>Painful. Very painful memories.

"Talk to me, Angleterre." It was a demand, not a request.

"Why should I?" England muttered, his eyes averting away from France's even without moving his head. He had instinctively known that the French would speak of the whole America-fling thing at some point, but this was the worst time to bring it up.

"Look at _me_, England", the stern command came and England's eyes snapped back to France's in surprise. The French had never used that tone with him. The look in France's eyes was odd as well.

"I know you took l'Amerique's death very harshly, but you never talked about it", he added a bit more softly, his hands now cupping England's cheeks. "I figured... that you needed time. And that's what I've given to you..."

At this point, France paused, his hands leaving the Brit's cheeks for the said male's back to guide England towards the closest bed.(In order to sit down, of course.)

After they both had sat down – and after pulling the stubborn Englishman close to him – France continued speaking. "But you... You're even worse than you were before you met America", he said quietly, grasping for the Brit's hand. "You were always an antisocial bastard, everyone would agree on that, but at least you had few friends back then."

England furrowed his brow at his words. "Geesh, thanks a lot", he growled and attempted to get his hand away from France's grip. He didn't only fail but he actually managed somehow fall on his side, accidentally pulling the French male down with him. Both lay there, face-to-face and only very short distance between their faces, just staring at each other for a while.

"But after your fling with the American youngster ended..." France murmured softly, gently pushing his forehead against England's. "...you distanced yourself even from me."

There was something in that sole sentence that moved something inside the British male who had been especially careful with his emotions since the fiasco that had led to America's inevitable death.

"You don't understand", the Brit grumbled as he tried to curl up into a ball, but the French stopped him. "You never did. You don't..." It was hard to breathe, he realized as he clutched his chest almost desperately.

"I understand you better than you think", France said with a scowl on his face, his own heart aching over both the Englishman and a certain friend of his. "Gilbert died about six months ago. Which you would have noticed if you hadn't been sulking and isolating yourself from the rest of the world."

_Gilbert. _

England's eyes widened as he tried to catch his breath after the feeling of suffocation had passed. His hands fell limply away from his chest onto the silk sheets.

_Gilbert had died. _

"Gil's dead?" he couldn't stop himself from asking meekly, blinking rapidly as if trying to stop the nonexistent tears from coming. "I..." What could he say to that? If he had really not noticed that someone who he used to go out drinking had _died_...

Gilbert Beilschmidt had once been his friend. Not a close one, not at all, but they had done things together, even other things than drinking. That crimson-eyed albino had been one of the very few people who could withstand his horrible thing called personality for certain lengths of time. Of course, both France and America belonged to this category as well.

"I..." England tried again, his breath hitching noticeably as he tried not to cry. "Sorry..." he mumbled quietly, his hands now clutching France's suit jacket tightly. "I... know you were c-close with him..." Closer than the Englishman anyways.

France's face softened as he noticed the shock written all over the Brit's face. Gingerly, his long and slender fingers stroked the Brit's soft cheek in a soothing manner that he hoped would calm the Brit down.  
>"I'm fine", the French said reassuringly, even if he really wasn't – Gilbert had been one of his best friends – but at least he was feeling better than the Brit. "But you're not, mon amour."<p>

England shuddered at the feeling of the fingers moving on his cheeks and his face flushed at the 'mon amour'.

"I'm not weak", he murmured in response to France's words as he tightened his grip at the suit jacket. "So s-shut up", he tried to grumble darkly, but his voice cracked at the end. "I-it's not l-like you give a damn a-anyway", he hiccupped weakly as tears blurred his vision.

France's eyes widened and he immediately wrapped his hands around his partner's waist and pressed a soft kiss to the other's forehead. Which was followed by the tensening of the said Brit's body.

"Oh, but I do, Angleterre, give a damn about you~!" the French stated cheerfully, his eyes having warmth that the Brit had never seen before. "Which is why I'm so worried about you nowadays, mon coeur", the blue-eyed male added a bit more seriously as his arms tightened around the Brit who felt like he was being smothered to death.

"Worried?" the Briton questioned in disbelief, his voice wavering slightly as he looked up at the French. He let out a dry laugh. "That's a g-good joke." It really was – their relationship had always been that of enemies' or rivals'. Never of friends' or lovers'. (Even when he had wanted it to be.)

"It's not a joke", France sighed in frustration, knowing that the Brit could be as stubborn as a bull if he believed firmly in something. "Mon Dieu, I don't know how Amerique ever convinced you of his love..."

The pained whine was enough to convince France that bringing up the American youngster had been a very bad idea.

"Listen to me, Angleterre", he said quietly with a sigh escaping from his lips. "As sad as it is, life goes on. You must go on as well or else you'll be stuck with the past for the rest of your life." The Brit had already been rather stuck in his own miserable past before the American had come along, but France wasn't exactly sure why. To him, the Englishman's life seemed to be pretty ordinary. Boring, even.

Although, the Brit really didn't speak much about his life... It was all France's interpretation.

"Also, Angleterre... " he purred and nuzzled at his long-time work partner's cheek teasingly. "There are people who still care about you. Love you, even." What would it take for the silly Brit to notice that not the whole world was out to hurt him?

A bitter laughter followed France's words. "Like who if I may ask?" The Brit's green eyes shone with both stubborness and tears that were slowly trickling down his cheeks. "There's no one..."

Francis huffed slightly. How dense can one Englishman be? Very, apparently. "There is me", he eventually said chastisingly as he forced the Brit to look at him again, wiping the tears from his cheek. "Have we not been working together for three years by now? How could I not care for someone who has saved my sweet and rather sexy, if I may add, ass for a few times?"

That earned a loud, albeit a bit hysteric, snort from the Briton. "Of course you'd think your arse is sexy... Stupid frog..." he grumbled as he himself wiped the rest of his tears away although they still kept coming.

In a way, the sobbing Brit was absolutely adorable view. Only if he were crying for some... more _sexual _reason, then France'd be happy... Although, this was fine too, since it gave him a chance to _comfort _his long-time rival... er, workmate. Yes, workmate.

"Do you not think so, Angleterre?" he feigned a pout on his face and decidedly ignored that the Brit hadn't reacted to his claim. "I have seen you looking at it on many occasions~!"

"W-what the hell, you b-bastard!" the Briton screeched quite loudly, squirming again and trying to get away from the French. "I-I most definitely haven't-"

Before the British man could finish his sentence, the French interrupted him by pressing his lips against the Briton's. England's eyes shot wide open and for once, his movements stopped. Even his breathing seemed to cease.

France ignored these facts and continued his exploration, his lips moving softly againts the Brit's, nibbling slightly at England's lower lip, which seemed to elicit a shudder from the stuffy male. France smirked slightly into the kiss and licked slightly at England's lower lip, silently asking for entrance and for England to actually kiss back.

Much to his surprise, both of his wishes came true as England slowly pressed his mouth against France's and allowed the insistent tongue to enter. France smiled slightly as the Brit wrapped his arms around the French neck, moaning into the kiss.

It was nothing like the French had imagined their first (sober) kiss to be – and he'd lie if he claimed that he hadn't even thought about it during these past three years – and he was slightly disappointed when the kiss came to an end. He hadn't had the time to taste the Brit well enough to discern the taste of the said Briton.

Although, seeing England's now very flushed face and hearing his panting definitely made up for it. A lewd grin made his lips rise up. "See, mo cher~?" he said jovially, hugging his (yes, _his_) Brit tightly. "There is someone who cares about you..."

The Brit's teary eyes looked at him warily. "Y-you... W-what..." he stammered weakly, his arms still wrapped around the French. "T-the hell was t-that for..."

France smiled innocently at him, his own cheeks slightly flushed. "My name..." he started softly, keeping his eyes locked with England's. "It's Francis Bonnefoy." Cheekily, he added, "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"W-what the..." the Briton stared at him with honestly shocked expression, tears glistening in his emerald eyes. "That's breaking the rules, you frog!" he squeaked in a very indignified manner.

The most important rule that applied to all of the agents that formed the World agency (which was simply named Hetalia) and that was to never reveal one's true name to anyone. It was better not to tell anything personal about oneself either, since if personal relationships were formed, they would not be able to act rationally during their missions if the life of someone they loved was in danger.

Of course, especially the latter one was broken regulary (not to form relationships), since it was impossible not to form some kind of a bond with the ones one had to work with.

Also, there were the ones that didn't give a damn about either of the rules. Such agents as America and Prussia had told pretty much everyone their names. Both did so in the name of awesome.

Naturally there were also the agents that were siblings with one another. Scotland, Ireland, Wales and England for example were brothers and coincidentally had all ended up in the agency.

….Although, their relationships weren't exactly best, so...

"You have broken many rules of the agency before", the man now identified as Francis commented dryly. "And you broke that rule with Amerique, no?"

The redness on England's face became even more apparent. "Exactly the reason why I'm not doing it again!" he barked out annoyedly, half-choked sob escaping from his throat. On the contrary to his words, he tightened his hold on Francis as though his life depended on it.

Francis pouted at him, his blue eyes gleaming. "Aw, cher, it's rude not to tell me your name since I told you mine", he said with fake sulky tone. He playfully kissed both corners of the Brit's mouth, gleefully noting the erratic breathing of England.

"I will keep doing this until you tell me your name, mon amour", he leaned over to whisper into England's ears, a smirk playing on his lips. "That and more."

"W-wha..." England stammered, his squirming increasing once again and he almost succeeded in getting away from the French's grip, but Francis skillfully rolled them around so that he was on top of the Englishman who was lying on his back.

Smirking down at the silly and very flustered Brit, Francis lowered his face back down to England's. "Mon cher~", he cooed mischievously. "Tell me~ Your name, that is~", he said in a sing-song tone of voice. "But if you want to share some of your kinks, I wouldn't mind hearing about those either..."

"S-stop, you bastard! My flight..." the British man trailed off, his voice hitching as the French tongue licked his earlobe in a highly sensual way. Unwillingly, he shuddered at the feeling, breathing heavily as the French hands pulled slightly at the Brit's tie. In few seconds, it had been taken off.

"It's still hours away, _mon ange_", Francis breathed into his Brit's ear. "But if you want me to stop... Tell me your name~..."

The Brit could certainly understand why the idiot was such an excellent agent at gaining information. If Francis did this all to his reluctant informants... A pang of jealousy stabbed his heart at that thought.

His clouded green eyes shut as he tried to ignore the very gentle and _ahhh_... "Ahhh..." he moaned out with half-choked voice. "S-stop i-it, y-you arse!"

"Only if you tell me your name, _Angleterre_..." the French hummed as he occupied himself with the delicious neck of his partner as his hands snaked their way to underneath of England's shirt. The Brit's abs tensed up under the wandering hands.

For a moment, England considered punching the asshole of a man. But feeling those hands underneath his shirt and those lips nipping his neck... How weak was he to get so... excited about that?

"A-ah... F-fine, y-you idiot..." he grumbled as he cracked one of his eyes open. "M-my name's Arthur Kirkland... I'm _not _so pleased to meet y-you, ahm..."

The French raised his head away from the neck, _very reluctantly_, and grinned down at the man under him in triumph, although he silently wished that the Brit wouldn't have relented for a while. "Arthur, huh? I always thought you were the type to have that kind of name~", he cooed as he tilted his head, flipping his hair in a way that he deemed as sexy.

The very red Englishman glowered at him from under his caterpillar-eyebrows. "Shut up, you idiot, and get off", he barked at him, refusing to admit that he wouldn't mind much if Francis continued doing what he did.

"What if I don't want to?" the French whined with a rather pitiful pout on his face. His hands, by the way, were still underneath Arthur's shirt, resting on the Brit's abdomen.

Arthur narrowed his eyes accusingly at him, although they were still clouded. (By what, Arthur didn't even _want _to know.)

"Do YOU want to get into a prison for raping an innocent and, if I may add, _decent _Brit?" he growled at the French, although he didn't sound very convincing even to his own ears. Damn French and his skillful body parts.

The French gave him a lecherous look and his blue eyes burned so intensely that the Brit swallowed thickly as his face warmed up again.

"Oh, I don't think you would do that, mon cher", Francis purred as his face inched towards the Brit's very red one. "In fact..." Arthur swallowed back a gasp as Francis brought his face so close that they were breathing on each other. "I think you'd like more..."

Arthur stared at him with wide eyes, silently comprehending what the French had said. "A-ah", he muttered, trying to come up with a good comeback or insult. Either one would work well. But with Francis so close to his face, staring at him like that...

"I-I'm so k-killing you if I won't make it to that fucking flight, you frog..." he breathed out, his half-lidded eyes staring up at Francis, who smirked as soon as he heard the Brit's words.

"Ah, but cher... My flight is in eight hours... You could come with me~..." he purred suggestively, eyeing the Brit's flushed face with hunger. "And we'd do it on the plane too~!"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU STUPID WANKER!"

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><p><strong>AN: SO. HOW MANY OF YOU WANT TO SHOOT ME FOR KILLING OFF BOTH AMERICA _AND _PRUSSIA? /SHOT**


End file.
